


Without Miscalculation

by houseofthestars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Smoking, sort of angsty with a happy ending, what if the symptoms of magic overuse were like a bad comedown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofthestars/pseuds/houseofthestars
Summary: He makes sure his footsteps echo across the courtyard because it wouldn’t do to catch his visitor by surprise in this state, not so soon after his arrival. As Ferdinand found him last time, he sits on the edge of the fountain, elbows braced on his knees, a cigarette in one hand. Ferdinand is no mage, never applied himself beyond the basics, but even he can taste the metallic film of spent magic in the air, like licking a teaspoon.“Hubert?” he says, as soft as he can.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 43
Kudos: 412





	Without Miscalculation

Ferdinand doesn’t remember the last time he slept deeply. It just wasn’t done during the war. A soldier slept with one ear open, with their weapons and boots at the foot of their bed, ready to go should the alarm be raised. Night marches, long strategy meetings, the endless busy work that greased the wheels of the Imperial machine: all of it was anathema to a regular sleep pattern. Ferdinand had never dreamed so much as he had during those five years in the monastery, often of running to a destination that he never reached. Sometimes of falling. From his horse, from the Great Bridge of Myrddin, from the balcony on the third floor of the monastery. Every time he would jerk awake in bed, bracing for the impact, his heart clattering in his chest.

In his Prime Minister’s residence in Enbarr, a townhouse to the west of the palace that he doesn’t feel like he deserves, his boots still rest beside the bed. Ferdinand hasn’t had to use a sword or a lance against a foe in six months but he still polishes his weapons, still runs through drills he can’t forget in the square courtyard his house is built around. The scrape of metal and his stomping upon the stone tiles must sound awfully uncouth to his politician neighbours, when all that usually disturbs the silence is the gentle trickle of water from a fountain, the chatter of gossip over tea.

He still rides Bevyn out of the capital every morning, towards the coast. He still sleeps fitfully, drifting in and out of a doze. Sometimes, he still dreams of falling.

It’s over, they tell each other, a new dawn for Fódlan is here, free of tyranny, and yet something thrums unpleasantly in Ferdinand’s blood. It is an anxiety that refuses to leave him no matter how long he stands at his window and watches Enbarr - for what is the capital but all of Fódlan, Ferdinand thinks, encapsulated in a moment - pulsing with life and vitality. No matter how often he signs his name below agreements that will leave a mark like his own thumbprint upon the country he fought for. No matter how many times he takes tea with Constance, receives letters from Lorenz, watches Dorothea retake her rightful place upon the stage.

It is this fitfulness of sleep - this tension that seems to thread its way around all of his muscles and tighten them against his will - that allows Ferdinand to catch the sound of the courtyard gate swinging open, its usual creak muffled but not silenced. He hears the faintest pad of footsteps across the tiles until they stop by the fountain. It pulls at Ferdinand’s heart with the sharpest pang until he’s sat upright, the sheets pooling at his waist.

He jumps into his boots, pulls on a jacket over his night clothes, tips water from a jug on his nightstand into an enamel cup. He has a good idea of what awaits him.

—

He makes sure his footsteps echo across the courtyard because it wouldn’t do to catch his visitor by surprise in this state, not so soon after his arrival. As Ferdinand found him last time, he sits on the edge of the fountain, elbows braced on his knees, a cigarette in one hand. Ferdinand is no mage, never applied himself beyond the basics, but even he can taste the metallic film of spent magic in the air, like licking a teaspoon.

“Hubert?” he says, as soft as he can.

Hubert takes another drag of his cigarette and Ferdinand can see how his hand shakes. In the dark of the courtyard he is an imitation of the man Ferdinand sees when he thinks of Hubert. A diminished, drained facsimile, shoulders slumped and exhaustion seeped into every joint.

“Hubert, it has not even been a week since you were last here.”

Hubert lets out a long smoky breath, and then in a leaden voice, says “I wasn’t aware you were keeping a record.”

“I cannot help but make note of you landing on my doorstep in the middle of the night like a lost bat,” Ferdinand says, trying to keep his voice light. He holds out the enamel cup. “It is quite the notable occurrence. Finish that horrible thing and have some water. I am sure I don’t know why you keep that nasty habit up.”

Hubert shrugs, but he does drop the cigarette after one last drag and extinguish it with the muddy toe of his boot. Ferdinand steps forward, makes to perch next to Hubert on the rim of the fountain. Hubert tenses but doesn’t otherwise object, so Ferdinand settles beside him, holds out the cup. Hubert takes it in both trembling hands. Now that Ferdinand is closer to Hubert, the metallic film in the air tastes unpleasantly stronger.

“Small sips,” Ferdinand reminds him.

“I’m not a child,” Hubert snaps.

“No, you are a fool who keeps - doing whatever this is, and then turning up at my home,” Ferdinand shoots back. “If you insist on this rigmarole then you’ll mind your manners.”

Hubert takes small sips.

“Are you injured? Can you stand?” Ferdinand asks.

“I’ve been healed,” Hubert says, without elaborating.

“Well then,” Ferdinand says, because that’s all he can say. “Let me know when you are finished with the water and we will get you upstairs.”

—

The first time, Ferdinand had opened the door with a sword in one hand; it had only been presence of mind that had stopped it slipping from his hand and clattering noisily in the courtyard when he realised what was in front of him. It hadn’t made a lick of sense. Hubert was supposed to be on state business at Fódlan’s Locket, a routine visit. And yet, Hubert was at Ferdinand’s home, sat on the edge of the fountain, blood flecked on his boots and his hands trembling.

“Hubert? What in the world—”

Hubert’s head had jerked up at that, eyes widening as they’d fallen on Ferdinand. He’d looked around himself, muttered something like “A miscalculation—” but when he made to stand his legs buckled underneath him, setting him back down on the edge of the fountain.

Everyone who had fought alongside a mage knew the warning signs of overuse of magic. A certain amount of wear and tear was considered an occupational hazard, of course, just as those who favoured gauntlets found their wrists and shoulders needed care and attention so as not to strain and stiffen permanently. Lysithea, Linhardt, Dorothea: all of them had their own lasting quirks and tales to tell. But overuse had its own unique repercussions.

Restless insomnia despite fatigue, the list went. Jaw clenching and teeth grinding. Muscle aches. Bruising and discolouration of the casting hand or hands, which became permanent with continued damage. Fine tremors. Most effects faded within a day, but it sapped your energy, dragged your mood crushingly low.

Hubert had refused to tell Ferdinand anything, even as Ferdinand had given him water, found a leftover scone from afternoon tea and spread it with jam when Hubert asked in a hoarse voice for something with sugar. He claimed that he was bound to secrecy, as if being in Ferdinand’s home in this state didn't already speak volumes. It wasn’t necessary to ask whose secrecy Hubert was bound to, either, of course. There was no one other than Edelgard that Hubert would go to such lengths for, be it by her command or without her knowledge.

So Ferdinand had done what he could. Shepherded Hubert into his own room, drawn the bath, insisted Hubert stay as long as he needed even as Hubert had mumbled that he should leave. Taken a blanket and stationed himself in a chair next to the door. Curled up with his eyes shut, listened to Hubert’s restless pacing and shuffling in the next room until it finally stilled an hour or so later. Briefly, Ferdinand had wondered if his own sleep would improve with someone beside him. Whether his own touch would soothe away aching muscles just a little faster than they might without.

At daybreak Ferdinand had heard the bedroom door creak open, a barely perceptible tread of well-worn shoes across the floorboards. He’d kept his eyes shut and let Hubert go.

A one-off mission gone awry, perhaps, he’d thought. Frustrating that even as Prime Minister, even after years of proving his loyalty there were still secrets that Edelgard would entrust to Hubert and not to himself. Time and again, he thought with chagrin, he had been shown that that particular privilege was not automatically earned. Perhaps in time it would be revealed. Hubert was safe, if a little worse for wear. A one-off could be allowed to pass without further fuss.

Even as he thought this, he had unwillingly started to stitch memories together into a fragile patchwork: Edelgard favouring her left leg slightly for the last week. Byleth Eisner and Jeritza von Hrym at the stables at dawn as he’d taken Bevyn out himself, their own particular aura of quiet menace somehow sharper than usual. Conversations cut short, meetings unexpectedly cancelled. And with each piece, the anxious thrumming in his blood only became harder to ignore.

—

“I have no scones today, though I do have half a strawberry tartlet that might suffice, If you do not mind taking my leftovers,” Ferdinand chats blithely as he walks Hubert up the stairs. “Sit yourself down and I will bring you a tray.”

Hubert sinks into a nearby chaise, his hands still wrapped around the enamel cup. “Anything with sugar will do, if available. I don’t mean to part you from a favoured tartlet.”

“Favoured as it may be, it is but one of a wide range of our local patisserie’s stock, which will surely be replenished in the morning,” Ferdinand says. It’s a nonsense of a sentence, but it fills the quiet of the room enough to let Ferdinand busy himself with the tray without continually glancing up at Hubert. Plate, tartlet, fork, napkin, another cup of water. He sets it down on a small table beside Hubert, and then sinks to his knees beside the chaise.

“Ah,” Hubert says, startled, but relaxes as Ferdinand starts to tug at his boots, loosening them and pulling them from his feet. They’re muddy again, the faintest smell of smoke and blood on them. Ferdinand sets them aside, then reaches for the cup in Hubert’s hands. Hubert tenses.

“It will be easier for you, if you would allow me,” Ferdinand says, carefully.

“Unnecessary. I've made enough of a nuisance of myself already.”

“Oh hush, I know you have the capacity to be far more of a nuisance than this.”

“Spoken like a true expert in the field,” Hubert croaks, but he still hesitates. “I have demanded enough of your time, I shouldn’t have—”

“Am I right in thinking,” Ferdinand says, a little more insistently, “that tonight’s visit was not a… what was the term you used before? A miscalculation.”

A pause, and then Hubert shakes his head.

“Then you are my guest, so allow me the courtesy,” Ferdinand says, firmly, and takes the cup from his hands, sets it on the tray. He unbuttons Hubert’s jacket, guides one arm out of the sleeves and then the other, sets it aside to be cleaned. Then he takes Hubert’s right wrist in one hand and peels off his black leather glove with the other.

There’s a crackle of static, another metallic film in the air when Ferdinand starts to gently massage Hubert’s palm with his thumbs, leaving his own hands tingling unpleasantly. Ferdinand catches each of Hubert’s fingers between his own in turn, running down their length until static snaps between them at the tips. Hubert hisses, and Ferdinand murmurs an apology but does not stop until the crackle fades. Hubert’s hands feel rough and calloused, fever warm.

“You are bound to secrecy again, I am sure,” Ferdinand says, businesslike, as he reaches for Hubert’s other hand. “Can I even ask if it is the same reason as last time?”

“I cannot say.”

“Of course. Never mind that this is the second time in less than a week I have seen you in such a state.” Ferdinand repeats his motions, presses his thumbs into Hubert’s palms, pulls gently at his fingers. “Does Edelgard know of this? Can you at least tell me that?”

A pause. “I work to her Majesty’s command. As ever.”

“And Edelgard knows you’re running yourself ragged to comply?”

Hubert makes a pfft noise. “You underestimate me, clearly.”

“I’m not  _ estimating _ anything! By the saints, you are insufferable sometimes—” Ferdinand says, frustrated, and then they both swear as static pops unpleasantly between their fingers. Ferdinand lets go, shaking the last of the tingling out of his own hands. The taste of metal in the air has dulled with Ferdinand’s ministrations, though, and Hubert wiggles his fingers cautiously. Though they still tremble, he does not look displeased with the result.

“Well then. Eat your tartlet. I have some arnica oil for your bruises that I can fetch. I shall draw a bath, too,” Ferdinand says, standing up briskly and drawing the table with the tray into the space where he’d been kneeling. “I’ve no coffee, I am afraid, though I am sure that would not be advisable right now anyway. If you would like a hot drink rather than water I can fetch chamomile—”

“Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand stops to look at Hubert. He looks so tired. So reduced. Ferdinand hates it.

The moment hangs, and then Hubert shakes his head. “A bath would be appreciated. And the arnica. Thank you.”

—

Ferdinand pails water into the tub, runs fingers over the heat sigil on the side, lets the water warm on its own while he fetches the arnica oil. When he returns to his own room, Hubert is sat cross-legged on the bed, still in his shirtsleeves and socks.

“Where were you hurt?” Ferdinand asks.

Hubert lifts one arm with a faint wince so that he can run a dark finger from the bottom of his left shoulder blade to under his arm.

“Very well. Shirt open,” Ferdinand says, still businesslike, and when Hubert opens his mouth again, he adds “it will be over much more quickly if you let me do it. Then I shall leave you in peace.”

“The buttons,” Hubert says, and holds out his hands, which still tremble. Ferdinand swallows, then clears his throat, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“Ah, of course. Allow me.” 

He perched on the edge of the bed, the dip of the mattress tipping him closer to Hubert than he’d planned. The room is warm and no lingering aftershock of magic rests in Ferdinand’s hands, but Ferdinand finds it takes longer than it should to fumble the buttons open, slide one arm out of its sleeve to inspect his side. Whatever faith magic Hubert has received has wiped most of the injury away but there is only so much a hasty healing spell will do, and yellow bruises still crowd at its centre. Ferdinand pulls the cork of the arnica oil away with his teeth and tips a little into his hand. When he smooths it into Hubert’s skin, Hubert badly suppresses a shiver and goosebumps break out under Ferdinand’s fingers.

“My hands are cold. Apologies.”

“No matter,” Hubert says. “Hardly worse than the time Dorothea put snow down the back of my neck on the way to Fraldarius.”

“I remember that. I thought you were going to curse her all the way back to the monastery. You screeched like a owl.”

“I prefer to think of it as more like a banshee.”

Ferdinand runs his hand gently over the bruises again, back and forth, following the line of Hubert’s ribs. Hubert’s eyes fall shut.

“Ferdinand,” he says, after a moment. His eyes are still closed.

“Mm?”

“Last week, when I arrived here, I— I had intended to warp to the palace. Haste clearly impaired my accuracy, and without meaning to I involved you in something that should never have been asked of you. For that I apologise.”

Ferdinand’s hand stops on Hubert’s side. “Ah. So you are apologising for involving me,” he says, feeling anger bloom hot in his face. Like he’s just been slapped.

“And for the imposition.”

“So you can say this is the last time this will happen?”

Hubert opens his eyes, looking stung. “If- I-” He takes a breath. “This can be the last time I will trouble you like this. It  _ will _ be the last time.”

Ferdinand pulls his hand away, sits back. “That is  _ not _ the same answer.”

“Then what do you want from me, Ferdinand?” Hubert snaps, turning to look at him. “To not carry out my sworn duties? Because that is what they are, Ferdinand, not a privilege, not some token reward from Lady Edelgard for my loyalty. I am a servant. I am a blade. You would ask me to neglect my service, betray my Emperor -  _ our _ Emperor - to assuage your ego?”

Ferdinand makes a frustrated noise. “No! Hubert, I- I would not ask you to betray Edelgard’s confidence, if whatever you are conducting is truly so secret. I can, however, ask that you not burn yourself to cinders! Or have I not even earned the right to ask that? Can I only ask that when you do, you come back to me, so that I might help put you back together?”

Hubert stares at him, and Ferdinand stares back, trying to calm his breathing. 

“Why do you care?” Hubert asks, and his voice sounds broken.

“Why did you come here a second time?” Ferdinand counters, desperately. “Without miscalculation?”

Hubert opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

Ferdinand stands up from the bed, reaches for a blanket from the box at the foot of the bed. “Do not let the bath grow cold,” he says. “It will do your muscles the power of good.”

“Wait. Stay,” Hubert says, and then looks at Ferdinand, eyes wide, as if startled by the sound of his own voice. “Please,” he adds.

He reaches out his hand to Ferdinand, fingers still trembling just a little. 

Ferdinand walks back towards the bed, encloses those too-warm fingers with his own.

“Alright, then,” Ferdinand says. “I’ll stay.”

—

Ferdinand sits down on the bed. He takes off his jacket and boots, and then after a moment’s thought, his nightclothes. He slips under the covers, closes his eyes. Listens to the faint sighs, the sound of water moving as Hubert bathes. Listens to the sound of fabric, the pad of his bare feet against the floorboards. 

He feels the mattress dip with the weight of Hubert’s body as he slides in behind Ferdinand. He can smell the soap that Lorenz had sent him as a gift, almost enough to drown out that last faint tang of metal on his tongue from Hubert’s proximity. He listens to Hubert’s breathing, and his own, as they slowly synchronise. He wonders if their heartbeats do the same.

A warm palm comes to rest in the middle of Ferdinand’s back, fingertips between his shoulder blades. He shifts his weight to press against it, and fingers twitch against his spine.

“I do not deserve you,” Hubert says, a voice that cuts through the silence like a ragged knife. “And you deserve better than to be pulled into this mess by my— my apparent need. For you. And yet I find I cannot regret finding myself here.”

Ferdinand rolls over, letting Hubert’s hand trace over his side and come to rest against his sternum instead. Hubert is naked as well; his hair has curled from the steam of the bath, fine hairs still stuck to his temple. Some colour has returned to his face but he still looks exhausted.

“I shan’t ask again who it is that you fight,” Ferdinand says, and he encloses the hand at his sternum in his own. “I will not even say that I would lend you my strength if needed, even though you know I would. But I will ask that you take care of yourself.”

“It is not my secret to share, ” Hubert says. “But if I were ever permitted, one day, I would. And... I will try. To take care.”

“And if you find you cannot do even that, then let me take care of you, because it is up to me to decide whether you deserve me or not.”

Ferdinand brings Hubert’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to each fingertip. Perhaps the spark that catches his lips is some last residue of magic, perhaps not.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, reverent, and Ferdinand kisses Hubert’s knuckles next, and then the hand breaks from his grip, presses itself to Ferdinand’s cheek. Strokes a thumb under his eye.

They are both so tired. Weary lips press slow and soft, ghosts of passion made by pale imitations of the people they should be, their bodies drawing closer until it becomes hard to see when one ends and the other begins. Curled against Hubert, their breathing matched, their heartbeats aligned, Ferdinand falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a weird one, maybe. Sorry?
> 
> You can find me on twitter at @hausofthestars!


End file.
